CHAPTER I. THE WAR OF THE ELEMENTS.CHAPTER II. THE LOVERS.CHAPTER III. THE CLOUD AND THE SIGN.CHAPTER IV. UNDER THE CLOUD.CHAPTER V. THE BURSTING OF THE STORM.CHAPTER VI. AFTER THE STORM.CHAPTER VII. THE LETTER.CHAPTER VIII. THE FLIGHT AND THE RETURN.CHAPTER IX. THE RECONCILIATION.CHAPTER X. AFTER THE STORM.CHAPTER XI. A NEW ACQUAINTANCE.CHAPTER XII. IN BONDS.CHAPTER XIII. THE REFORMERS.CHAPTER XIV. A STARTLING EXPERIENCE.CHAPTER XV. CAPTIVATED AGAIN.CHAPTER XVI. WEARY OF CONSTRAINT.CHAPTER XVII. GONE FOR EVER!CHAPTER XVIII. YOUNG, BUT WISE.CHAPTER XIX. THE SHIPWRECKED LIFE.CHAPTER XX. THE PALSIED HEART.CHAPTER XXI. THE IRREVOCABLE DECREE.CHAPTER XXII. STRUCK DOWN.CHAPTER XXIII. THE HAUNTED VISION.CHAPTER XXIV. THE MINISTERING ANGEL.CHAPTER XXV. BORN FOR EACH OTHER.CHAPTER XXVI. LOVE NEVER DIES.CHAPTER XXVII. EFFECTS OF THE STORM.CHAPTER XXVIII. AFTER THE STORM.

AFTER THE STORM.

CHAPTER I.

THE WAR OF THE ELEMENTS.

_NO_ June day ever opened with a fairer promise. Not a single cloudflecked the sky, and the sun coursed onward through the azure seauntil past meridian, without throwing to the earth a single shadow.Then, low in the west, appeared something obscure and hazy, blendingthe hill-tops with the horizon; an hour later, and three or foursmall fleecy islands were seen, clearly outlined in the airy ocean,and slowly ascending--avant-couriers of a coming storm. Followingthese were mountain peaks, snow-capped and craggy, with desolatevalleys between. Then, over all this arctic panorama, fell a suddenshadow. The white tops of the cloudy hills lost their clear,gleaming outlines and their slumbrous stillness. The atmosphere wasin motion, and a white scud began to drive across the heavy, darkmasses of clouds that lay far back against the sky in mountain-likerepose.

How grandly now began the onward march of the tempest, which hadalready invaded the sun's domain and shrouded his face in the smokeof approaching battle. Dark and heavy it lay along more than halfthe visible horizon, while its crown invaded the zenith.

As yet, all was silence and portentous gloom. Nature seemed to pauseand hold her breath in dread anticipation. Then came a muffled,jarring sound, as of far distant artillery, which died away into anoppressive stillness. Suddenly from zenith to horizon the cloud wascut by a fiery stroke, an instant visible. Following this, a heavythunder-peal shook the solid earth, and rattled in booming echoesalong the hillsides and amid the cloudy caverns above.

At last the storm came down on the wind's strong pinions, swoopingfiercely to the earth, like an eagle to its prey. For one wild hourit raged as if the angel of destruction were abroad.

At the window of a house standing picturesquely among the HudsonHighlands, and looking down upon the river, stood a maiden and herlover, gazing upon this wild war among the elements. Fear hadpressed her closely to his side, and he had drawn an arm around herin assurance of safety.

Suddenly the maiden clasped her hands over her face, cried out andshuddered. The lightning had shivered a tree upon which her gaze wasfixed, rending it as she could have rent a willow wand.

"God is in the storm," said the lover, bending to her ear. He spokereverently and in a voice that had in it no tremor of fear.

The maiden withdrew her hands from before her shut eyes, and lookingup into his face, answered in a voice which she strove to makesteady:

"Thank you, Hartley, for the words. Yes, God is present in thestorm, as in the sunshine."

"Look!" exclaimed the young man, suddenly, pointing to the river. Aboat had just come in sight. It contained a man and a woman. Theformer was striving with a pair of oars to keep the boat right inthe eye of the wind; but while the maiden and her lover still gazedat them, a wild gust swept down upon the water and drove their frailbark under. There was no hope in their case; the floods hadswallowed them, and would not give up their living prey.

A moment afterward, and an elm, whose great arms had for nearly acentury spread themselves out in the sunshine tranquilly or battledwith the storms, fell crashing against the house, shaking it to thevery foundations.

The maiden drew back from the window, overcome with terror. Theseshocks were too much for her nerves. But her lover restrained her,saying, with a covert chiding in his voice,

"Stay, Irene! There is a wild delight in all this, and are you notbrave enough to share it with me?"

But she struggled to release herself from his arm, replying with ashade of impatience--

"Let me go, Hartley! Let me go!"

The flexed arm was instantly relaxed, and the maiden was free. Shewent back, hastily, from the window, and, sitting down on a sofa,buried her face in her hands. The young man did not follow her, butremained standing by the window, gazing out upon Nature in herstrong convulsion. It may, however, be doubted whether his mind tooknote of the wild images that were pictured in his eyes. A cloud wasin the horizon of his mind, dimming its heavenly azure. And themaiden's sky was shadowed also.

For two or three minutes the young man stood by the window, lookingout at the writhing trees and the rain pouring down an avalanche ofwater, and then, with a movement that indicated a struggle and aconquest, turned and walked toward the sofa on which the maidenstill sat with her face hidden from view. Sitting down beside her,he took her hand. It lay passive in his. He pressed it gently; butshe gave back no returning pressure. There came a sharp, quick gleamof lightning, followed by a crash that jarred the house. But Irenedid not start--we may question whether she even saw the one or heardthe other, except as something remote.

"Irene!"

She did not stir.

The young man leaned closer, and said, in a tender voice--

"Irene--darling--"

Her hand moved in his--just moved--but did not return the pressureof his own.

"Irene." And now his arm stole around her. She yielded, and,turning, laid her head upon his shoulder.

There had been a little storm in the maiden's heart, consequent uponthe slight restraint ventured on by her lover when she drew backfrom the window; and it was only now subsiding.

"I did not mean to offend you," said the young man, penitently.

"Who said that I was offended?" She looked up, with a smile thatonly half obliterated the shadow. "I was frightened, Hartley. It isa fearful storm!" And she glanced toward the window.

The lover accepted this affirmation, though he knew better in hisheart. He knew that his slight attempt at constraint had chafed hernaturally impatient spirit, and that it had taken her some time toregain her lost self-control.

Without, the wild rush of winds was subsiding, the lightning gleamedout less frequently, and the thunder rolled at a farther distance.Then came that deep stillness of nature which follows in the wake ofthe tempest, and in its hush the lovers stood again at the window,looking out upon the wrecks that were strewn in its path. They weresilent, for on both hearts was a shadow, which had not rested therewhen they first stood by the window, although the sky was then moredeeply veiled. So slight was the cause on which these shadowsdepended that memory scarcely retained its impression. He wastender, and she was yielding; and each tried to atone by loving actsfor a moment of willfulness.

The sun went down while yet the skirts of the storm were spread overthe western sky, and without a single glance at the ruins whichlightning, wind and rain had scattered over the earth's fairsurface. But he arose gloriously in the coming morning, and wentupward in his strength, consuming the vapors at a breath, anddrinking up every bright dewdrop that welcomed him with a quiver ofjoy. The branches shook themselves in the gentle breezes hispresence had called forth to dally amid their foliage and sport withthe flowers; and every green thing put on a fresher beauty indelight at his return; while from the bosom of the trees--fromhedgerow and from meadow--went up the melody of birds.

In the brightness of this morning, the lovers went out to look atthe storm-wrecks that lay scattered around. Here a tree had beentwisted off where the tough wood measured by feet instead of inches;there stood the white and shivered trunk of another sylvan lord,blasted in an instant by a lightning stroke; and there lay, proneupon the ground, giant limbs, which, but the day before, spreadthemselves abroad in proud defiance of the storm. Vines were tornfrom their fastenings; flower-beds destroyed; choice shrubbery,tended with care for years, shorn of its beauty. Even the solidearth had been invaded by floods of water, which ploughed deepfurrows along its surface. And, saddest of all, two human lives hadgone out while the mad tempest raged in uncontrollable fury.

As the lover and maiden stood looking at the signs of violence sothickly scattered around, the former said, in a cheerful tone--

"For all his wild, desolating power, the tempest is vassal to thesun and dew. He may spread his sad trophies around in brief, blindrage; but they soon obliterate all traces of his path, and makebeautiful what he has scarred with wounds or disfigured by the trampof his iron heel."

"Not so, my children," said the calm voice of the maiden's father,to whose ears the remark had come. "Not so, my children. The sun anddew never fully restore what the storm has broken and trampled upon.They may hide disfiguring marks, and cover with new forms of lifeand beauty the ruins which time can never restore. This issomething, and we may take the blessing thankfully, and try toforget what is lost, or so changed as to be no longer desirable.Look at this fallen and shattered elm, my children. Is there anyhope for that in the dew, the rain and sunshine? Can these build itup again, and spread out its arms as of old, bringing back to me, asit has done daily, the image of my early years? No, my children.After every storm are ruins which can never be repaired. Is it notso with that lightning-stricken oak? And what art can restore to itsexquisite loveliness this statue of Hope, thrown down by theruthless hand of the unsparing tempest? Moreover, is there humanvitality in the sunshine and fructifying dew? Can they put life intothe dead?

"No--no--my children. And take the lesson to heart. Outward tempestsbut typify and represent the fiercer tempests that too oftendesolate the human soul. In either case something is lost that cannever be restored. Beware, then, of storms, for wreck and ruinfollow as surely as the passions rage."

CHAPTER II.

THE LOVERS.

_IRENE DELANCY_ was a girl of quick, strong feelings, and anundisciplined will. Her mother died before she reached her tenthyear. From that time she was either at home under the care ofdomestics, or within the scarcely more favorable surroundings of aboarding-school. She grew up beautiful and accomplished, butcapricious and with a natural impatience of control, that unwisereactions on the part of those who attempted to govern her in nodegree tempered.

Hartley Emerson, as a boy, was self-willed and passionate, butpossessed many fine qualities. A weak mother yielded to his resolutestruggles to have his own way, and so he acquired, at an early age,control over his own movements. He went to college, studied hard,because he was ambitious, and graduated with honor. Law he chose asa profession; and, in order to secure the highest advantages,entered the office of a distinguished attorney in the city of NewYork, and gave to its study the best efforts of a clear, acute andlogical mind. Self-reliant, proud, and in the habit of reaching hisends by the nearest ways, he took his place at the bar with apromise of success rarely exceeded. From his widowed mother, whodied before he reached his majority, Hartley Emerson inherited amoderate fortune with which to begin the world. Few young menstarted forward on their life-journey with so small a number ofvices, or with so spotless a moral character. The fine intellectualcast of his mind, and his devotion to study, lifted him above thebaser allurements of sense and kept his garments pure.

Such were Irene Delancy and Hartley Emerson--lovers and betrothed atthe time we present them to our readers. They met, two years before,at Saratoga, and drew together by a mutual attraction. She was thefirst to whom his heart had bowed in homage; and until she lookedupon him her pulse had never beat quicker at sight of a manly form.

Mr. Edmund Delancy, a gentleman of some wealth and advanced inyears, saw no reason to interpose objections. The family of Emersonoccupied a social position equal with his own; and the young man'scharacter and habits were blameless. So far, the course of love ransmooth; and only three months intervened until the wedding-day.

The closer relation into which the minds of the lovers came aftertheir betrothal and the removal of a degree of deference andself-constraint, gave opportunity for the real character of each toshow itself. Irene could not always repress her willfulness andimpatience of another's control; nor her lover hold a firm hand onquick-springing anger when anything checked his purpose. Pride andadhesiveness of character, under such conditions of mind, weredangerous foes to peace; and both were proud and tenacious.

The little break in the harmonious flow of their lives, noticed asoccurring while the tempest raged, was one of many such incidents;and it was in consequence of Mr. Delancy's observation of theseunpromising features in their intercourse that he spoke with so muchearnestness about the irreparable ruin that followed in the wake ofstorms.

At least once a week Emerson left the city, and his books and cases,to spend a day with Irene in her tasteful home; and sometimes helingered there for two or three days at a time. It happened, almostinvariably, that some harsh notes jarred in the music of their livesduring these pleasant seasons, and left on both their hearts afeeling of oppression, or, worse, a brooding sense of injustice.Then there grew up between them an affected opposition andindifference, and a kind of half-sportive, half-earnest wranglingabout trifles, which too often grew serious.

Mr. Delancy saw this with a feeling of regret, and often interposedto restore some broken links in the chain of harmony.

"You must be more conciliating, Irene," he would often say to hisdaughter. "Hartley is earnest and impulsive, and you should yield tohim gracefully, even when you do not always see and feel as he does.This constant opposition and standing on your dignity about triflesis fretting both of you, and bodes evil in the future."

"Would you have me assent if he said black was white?" she answeredto her father's remonstrance one day, balancing her little headfirmly and setting her lips together in a resolute way.

"It might be wiser to say nothing than to utter dissent, if, in sodoing, both were made unhappy," returned her father.

"And so let him think me a passive fool?" she asked.

"No; a prudent girl, shaming his unreasonableness by herself-control."

"I have read somewhere," said Irene, "that all men are self-willedtyrants--the words do not apply to you, my father, and so there isan exception to the rule." She smiled a tender smile as she lookedinto the face of a parent who had ever been too indulgent. "But,from my experience with a lover, I can well believe the sentimentbased in truth. Hartley must have me think just as he thinks, and dowhat he wants me to do, or he gets ruffled. Now I don't expect, whenI am married, to sink into a mere nobody--to be my husband's echoand shadow; and the quicker I can make Hartley comprehend this thebetter will it be for both of us. A few rufflings of his feathersnow will teach him how to keep them smooth and glossy in the time tocome."

"You are in error, my child," replied Mr. Delancy, speaking veryseriously. "Between those who love a cloud should never interpose;and I pray you, Irene, as you value your peace and that of the manwho is about to become your husband, to be wise in the verybeginning, and dissolve with a smile of affection every vapor thatthreatens a coming storm. Keep the sky always bright."

"I will do everything that I can, father, to keep the sky of ourlives always bright, except give up my own freedom of thought andindependence of action. A wife should not sink her individuality inthat of her husband, any more than a husband should sink hisindividuality in that of his wife. They are two equals, and shouldbe content to remain equals. There is no love in subordination."

Mr. Delancy sighed deeply: "Is argument of any avail here? Can wordsstir conviction in her mind?" He was silent for a time, and thensaid--

"Better, Irene, that you stop where you are, and go through lifealone, than venture upon marriage, in your state of feeling, with aman like Hartley Emerson."

"Dear father, you are altogether too serious!" exclaimed thewarm-hearted girl, putting her arms around his neck and kissing him."Hartley and I love each other too well to be made very unhappy byany little jar that takes place in the first reciprocal movement ofour lives. We shall soon come to understand each other, and then theharmonies will be restored."

"The harmonies should never be lost, my child," returned Mr.Delancy. "In that lies the danger. When the enemy gets into thecitadel, who can say that he will ever be dislodged? There is nosafety but in keeping him out."

"Still too serious, father," said Irene. "There is no danger to befeared from any formidable enemy. All these are very little things."

"It is the little foxes that spoil the tender grapes, my daughter,"Mr. Delancy replied; "and if the tender grapes are spoiled, whathope is there in the time of vintage? Alas for us if in the lateryears the wine of life shall fail!"

There was so sad a tone in her father's voice, and so sad anexpression on his face, that Irene was touched with a new feelingtoward him. She again put her arms around his neck and kissed himtenderly.

"Do not fear for us," she replied. "These are only little summershowers, that make the earth greener and the flowers more beautiful.The sky is of a more heavenly azure when they pass away, and the sunshines more gloriously than before."

But the father could not be satisfied, and answered--

"Beware of even summer showers, my darling. I have known fearfulravages to follow in their path--seen many a goodly tree go down.After every storm, though the sky may be clearer, the earth uponwhich it fell has suffered some loss which is a loss for ever.Begin, then, by conciliation and forbearance. Look past theexternal, which may seem at times too exacting or imperative, andsee only the true heart pulsing beneath--the true, brave heart, thatwould give to every muscle the strength of steel for your protectionif danger threatened. Can you not be satisfied with knowing that youare loved--deeply, truly, tenderly? What more can a woman ask? Canyou not wait until this love puts on its rightly-adjusted exterior,as it assuredly will. It is yet mingled with self-love, and itsaction modified by impulse and habit. Wait--wait--wait, my daughter.Bear and forbear for a time, as you value peace on earth andhappiness in heaven."

"I will try, father, for your sake, to guard myself," she answered.

"No, no, Irene. Not for my sake, but for the sake of right,"returned Mr. Delancy.

They were sitting in the vine-covered portico that looked down, overa sloping lawn toward the river.

"There is Hartley now!" exclaimed Irene, as the form of her lovercame suddenly into view, moving forward along the road thatapproached from the landing, and she sprung forward and went rapidlydown to meet him. There an ardent kiss, a twining of arms, warmlyspoken words and earnest gestures. Mr. Delancy looked at them asthey stood fondly together, and sighed. He could not help it, for heknew there was trouble before them. After standing and talking for ashort time, they began moving toward the house, but paused at everyfew paces--sometimes to admire a picturesque view--sometimes tolisten one to the other and respond to pleasant sentiments--andsometimes in fond dispute. This was Mr. Delancy's reading of theiractions and gestures, as he sat looking at and observing themclosely.

A little way from the path by which they were advancing toward thehouse was a rustic arbor, so placed as to command a fine sweep ofriver from one line of view and West Point from another. Irenepaused and made a motion of her hand toward this arbor, as if shewished to go there; but Hartley looked to the house and plainlysignified a wish to go there first. At this Irene pulled him gentlytoward the arbor; he resisted, and she drew upon his arm moreresolutely, when, planting his feet firmly, he stood like a rock.Still she urged and still he declined going in that direction. Itwas play at first, but Mr. Delancy saw that it was growing to beearnest. A few moments longer, and he saw Irene separate fromHartley and move toward the arbor; at the same time the young mancame forward in the direction of the house. Mr. Delancy, as hestepped from the portico to meet him, noticed that his color washeightened and his eyes unusually bright.

"What's the matter with that self-willed girl of mine?" he asked, ashe took the hand of Emerson, affecting a lightness of tone that didnot correspond with his real feelings.

"Oh, nothing serious," the young man replied. "She's only in alittle pet because I wouldn't go with her to the arbor before I paidmy respects to you."

"She's a spoiled little puss," said the father, in a fond yetserious way, "and you'll have to humor her a little at first,Hartley. She never had the wise discipline of a mother, and so hasgrown up unused to that salutary control which is so necessary foryoung persons. But she has a warm, true heart and pure principles;and these are the foundation-stones on which to build the temple ofhappiness."

"Don't fear but that it will be all right between us. I love her toowell to let any flitting humors affect me."

He stepped upon the portico as he spoke and sat down. Irene hadbefore this reached the arbor and taken a seat there. Mr. Delancycould do no less than resume the chair from which he had arisen onthe young man's approach. In looking into Hartley's face he noticeda resolute expression about his mouth. For nearly ten minutes theysat and talked, Irene remaining alone in the arbor. Mr. Delancy thensaid, in a pleasant off-handed way,

"Come, Hartley, you have punished her long enough. I don't like tosee you even play at disagreement."

He did not seem to notice the remark, but started a subject ofconversation that it was almost impossible to dismiss for the nextten minutes. Then he stepped down from the portico, and was movingleisurely toward the arbor when he perceived that Irene had alreadyleft it and was returning by another path. So he came back andseated himself again, to await her approach. But, instead of joininghim, she passed round the house and entered on the opposite side.For several minutes he sat, expecting every instant to see her comeout on the portico, but she did not make her appearance.

It was early in the afternoon. Hartley, affecting not to notice theabsence of Irene, kept up an animated conversation with Mr. Delancy.A whole hour went by, and still the young lady was absent. Suddenlystarting, up, at the end of this time, Hartley exclaimed--

"As I live, there comes the boat! and I must be in New Yorkto-night."

"Stay," said Mr. Delancy, "until I call Irene."

"I can't linger for a moment, sir. It will take quick walking toreach the landing by the time the boat is there." The young manspoke hurriedly, shook hands with Mr. Delancy, and then sprung away,moving at a rapid pace.

"What's the matter, father? Where is Hartley going?" exclaimedIrene, coming out into the portico and grasping her father's arm.Her face was pale and her lips trembled.

"He is going to New York," relied Mr. Delancy.

"To New York!" She looked almost frightened.

"Yes. The boat is coming, and he says that he must be in the cityto-night."

Irene sat down, looking pale and troubled.

"Why have you remained away from Hartley ever since his arrival?"asked Mr. Delancy, fixing his eyes upon Irene and evincing somedispleasure.

Irene did not answer, but her father saw the color coming back toher face.

"I think, from his manner, that he was hurt by your singulartreatment. What possessed you to do so?"

"Because I was not pleased with him," said Irene. Her voice was nowsteady.

"Why not?"

"I wished him to go to the arbor."

"He was your guest, and, in simple courtesy, if there was no othermotive, you should have let his wishes govern your movements," Mr.Delancy replied.

"He is always opposing me!" said Irene, giving way to a flood oftears and weeping for a time bitterly.

"It is not at all unlikely, my daughter," replied Mr. Delancy, afterthe tears began to flow less freely, "that Hartley is now saying thesame thing of you, and treasuring up bitter things in his heart. Ihave no idea that any business calls him to New York to-night."

"Nor I. He takes this means to punish me," said Irene.

"Don't take that for granted. Your conduct has blinded him, and heis acting now from blind impulse. Before he is half-way to New Yorkhe will regret this hasty step as sincerely as I trust you arealready regretting its occasion."

Irene did not reply.

"I did not think," he resumed, "that my late earnest remonstrancewould have so soon received an illustration like this. But it may beas well. Trifles light as air have many times proved the beginningof life-longs separations between friends and lovers who possessedall the substantial qualities for a life-long and happycompanionship. Oh, my daughter, beware! beware of these littlebeginnings of discord. How easy would it have been for you to haveyielded to Hartley's wishes!--how hard will it to endure the painthat must now be suffered! And remember that you do not sufferalone; your conduct has made him an equal sufferer. He came up allthe way from the city full of sweet anticipations. It was for yoursake that he came; and love pictured you as embodying allattractions. But how has he found you? Ah, my daughter, your capricehas wounded the heart that turned to you for love. He came in joy,but goes back in sorrow."

Irene went up to her chamber, feeling sadder than she had ever feltin her life; yet, mingling, with her sadness and self-reproaches,were complaining thoughts of her lover. For a little half-playfulpettishness was she to be visited with a punishment like this? If behad really loved her--so she queried--would be have flung himselfaway after this hasty fashion? Pride came to her aid in the conflictof feeling, and gave her self-control and endurance. At tea-time shemet her father, and surprised him with her calm, almost cheerful,aspect. But his glance was too keen not to penetrate the disguise.After tea, she sat reading--or at least affecting to read--in theportico, until the evening shadows came down, and then she retiredto her chamber.

Not many hours of sleep brought forgetfulness of suffering throughthe night that followed. Sometimes the unhappy girl heaped mountainsof reproaches upon her own head; and sometimes pride andindignation, gaining rule in her heart, would whisperself-justification, and throw the weight of responsibility upon herlover.

Her pale face and troubled eyes revealed too plainly, on the nextmorning, the conflict through which she had passed.

"Write him a letter of apology or explanation," said Mr. Delancy.

But Irene was not in a state of mind for this. Pride came whisperingtoo many humiliating objections in her ear. Morning passed, and inthe early hours of the afternoon, when the New York boat usuallycame up the river, she was out on the portico watching for itsappearance. Hope whispered that, repenting of his hasty return onthe day before, her lover was now hurrying back to meet her. At lastthe white hull of the boat came gliding into view, and in less thanhalf an hour it was at the landing. Then it moved on its courseagain. Almost to a second of time had Irene learned to calculate theminutes it required for Hartley to make the distance between thelanding and the nearest point in the road where his form could meether view. She held her breath in eager expectation as that moment oftime approached. It came--it passed; the white spot in the road,where his dark form first revealed itself, was touched by noobscuring shadow. For more than ten minutes Irene sat motionless,gazing still toward that point; then, sighing deeply, she arose andwent up to her room, from which she did not come down until summonedto join her father at tea.

The next day passed as this had done, and so did the next. Hartleyneither came nor sent a message of any kind. The maiden's heartbegan to fail. Grief and fear took the place of accusation andself-reproach. What if he had left her for ever! The thought madeher heart shiver as if an icy wind had passed over it. Two or threetimes she took up her pen to write him a few words and entreat himto come back to her again. But she could form no sentences againstwhich pride did not come with strong objection; and so she sufferedon, and made no sign.

A whole week at last intervened. Then the enduring heart began togrow stronger to bear, and, in self-protection, to put on sternermoods. Hers was not a spirit to yield weakly in any struggle. Shewas formed for endurance, pride and self-reliance giving herstrength above common natures. But this did not really lessen hersuffering, for she was not only capable of deep affection, butreally loved Hartley almost as her own life; and the thought oflosing him, whenever it grew distinct, filled her with terribleanguish.

With pain her father saw the color leave her cheeks, her eyes growfixed and dreamy, and her lips shrink from their full outline.

"Father," she interrupted him, two bright spots suddenly burning onher cheeks, "don't, I pray you, urge me on this point. I havecourage enough to break, but I will not bend. I gave him no offence.What right has he to assume that I was not engaged in domesticduties while he sat talking with you? He said that he had anengagement in New York. Very well; there was a sufficient reason forhis sudden departure; and I accept the reason. But why does heremain away? If simply because I preferred a seat in the arbor toone in the portico, why, the whole thing is so unmanly, that I canhave no patience with it. Write to him, and humor a whim like this!No, no--Irene Delancy is not made of the right stuff. He went fromme, and he must return again. I cannot go to him. Maiden modesty andpride forbid. And so I shall remain silent and passive, if my heartbreaks."

It was in the afternoon, and they were sitting in the portico,where, at this hour, Irene might have been found every day for thepast week. The boat from New York came in sight as she closed thelast sentence. She saw it--for her eyes were on the look-out--themoment it turned the distant point of land that hid the riverbeyond. Mr. Delancy also observed the boat. Its appearance was anincident of sufficient importance, taking things as they were, tocheck the conversation, which was far from being satisfactory oneither side.

The figure of Irene was half buried in a deep cushioned chair, whichhad been wheeled out upon the portico, and now her small, slenderform seemed to shrink farther back among the cushions, and she satas motionless as one asleep. Steadily onward came the boat, throwingbackward her dusky trail and lashing with her great revolving wheelsthe quiet waters into foamy turbulence--onward, until the dark crowdof human forms could be seen upon her decks; then, turning sharply,she was lost to view behind a bank of forest trees. Ten minutesmore, and the shriek of escaping steam was heard as she stopped herponderous machinery at the landing.

From that time Irene almost held her breath, as so she counted themoments that must elapse before Hartley could reach the point ofview in the road that led up from the river, should he have been apassenger in the steamboat. The number was fully told, but it wasto-day as yesterday. There was no sign of his coming. And so theeyelids, weary with vain expectation, drooped heavily over thedimming eyes. But she had not stirred, nor shown a sign of feeling.A little while she sat with her long lashes shading her pale cheeks;then she slowly raised them and looked out toward the river again.What a quick start she gave! Did her eyes deceive her? No, it wasHartley, just in the spot she had looked to see him only a minute ortwo before. But how slowly he moved, and with what a weary step!and, even at this long distance, his face looked white against thewavy masses of his dark-brown hair.

Irene started up with an exclamation, stood as if in doubt for amoment, then, springing from the portico, she went flying to meethim, as swiftly as if moving on winged feet. All the forces of herardent, impulsive nature were bearing her forward. There was noremembrance of coldness or imagined wrong--pride did not evenstruggle to lift its head--love conquered everything. The young manstood still, from weariness or surprise, ere she reached him. As shedrew near, Irene saw that his face was not only pale, but thin andwasted.

"Oh, Hartley! dear Hartley!" came almost wildly from her lips, asshe flung her arms around his neck, and kissed him over and overagain, on lips, cheeks and brow, with an ardor and tenderness thatno maiden delicacy could restrain. "Have you been sick, or hurt? Whyare you so pale, darling?"

"I have been ill for a week--ever since I was last here," the youngman replied, speaking in a slow, tremulous voice.

"And I knew it not!" Tears were glittering in her eyes and pressingout in great pearly beads from between the fringing lashes. "Why didyou not send for me, Hartley?"

And she laid her small hands upon each side of his face, as you haveseen a mother press the cheeks of her child, and looked up tenderlyinto his love-beaming eyes.

"But come, dear," she added, removing her hands from his face anddrawing her arm within his--not to lean on, but to offer support."My father, who has, with me, suffered great anxiety on youraccount, is waiting your arrival at the house."

Then, with slow steps, they moved along the upward sloping way,crowding the moments with loving words.

And so the storm passed, and the sun came out again in the firmamentof their souls. But looked he down on no tempest-marks? Had not theruthless tread of passion marred the earth's fair surface? Were nogoodly trees uptorn, or clinging vines wrenched from their support?Alas! was there ever a storm that did not leave some ruined hopebehind? ever a storm that did not strew the sea with wrecks or marthe earth's fair beauty?

As when the pain of a crushed limb ceases there comes to thesufferer a sense of delicious ease, so, after the storm had passed,the lovers sat in the warm sunshine and dreamed of uncloudedhappiness in the future. But in the week that Hartley spent with hisbetrothed were revealed to their eyes, many times, desolate placeswhere flowers had been; and their hearts grew sad as they turnedtheir eyes away, and sighed for hopes departed, faith shaken, anduntroubled confidence in each other for the future before them, forever gone.

CHAPTER III.

THE CLOUD AND THE SIGN.

_IN_ alternate storm and sunshine their lives passed on, until theappointed day arrived that was to see them bound, not by thegraceful true-lovers' knot, which either might untie, but by a chainlight as downy fetters if borne in mutual love, and galling asponderous iron links, if heart answered not heart and the chafingspirit struggled to get free.

Hartley Emerson loved truly the beautiful, talented andaffectionate, but badly-disciplined, quick-tempered, self-willedgirl he had chosen for a wife; and Irene Delancy would have gone toprison and to death for the sake of the man to whom she had yieldedup the rich treasures of her young heart. In both cases the greatdrawback to happiness was the absence of self-discipline,self-denial and self-conquest. They could overcome difficulties,brave danger, set the world at defiance, if need be, for each other,and not a coward nerve give way; but when pride and passion camebetween them, each was a child in weakness and blind self-will.Unfortunately, persistence of character was strong in both. Theywere of such stuff as martyrs were made of in the fiery times ofpower and persecution.

A brighter, purer morning than that on which their marriage vowswere said the year had not given to the smiling earth. Clear andsoftly blue as the eye of childhood bent the summer sky above them.There was not a cloud in all the tranquil heavens to give suggestionof dreary days to come or to wave a sign of warning. The blithebirds sung their matins amid the branches that hung their leafydrapery around and above Irene's windows, in seeming echoes to thesongs love was singing in her heart. Nature put on the loveliestattire in all her ample wardrobe, and decked herself with coronalsand wreaths of flowers that loaded the air with sweetness.

"May your lives flow together like two pure streams that meet in thesame valley, and as bright a sky bend always over you as gives itsserene promise for to-day."

Thus spoke the minister as the ceremonials closed that wrought theexternal bond of union between them. His words were uttered withfeeling and solemnity; for marriage, in his eyes, was no lightthing. He had seen too many sad hearts struggling in chains thatonly death could break, ever to regard marriage with other thansober thoughts that went questioning away into the future.

The "amen" of Mr. Delancy was not audibly spoken, but it wasdeep-voiced in his heart.

There was to be a wedding-tour of a few weeks, and then the youngcouple were to take possession of a new home in the city, Which Mr.Emerson had prepared for his bride. The earliest boat that came upfrom New York was to bears the party to Albany, Saratoga being thefirst point of their destination.

After the closing of the marriage ceremony some two or three hourspassed before the time of departure came. The warm congratulationswere followed by a gay, festive scene, in which glad young heartshad a merry-making time. How beautiful the bride looked! and howproudly the gaze of her newly-installed husband turned ever and evertoward her, move which way she would among her maidens, as if shewere a magnet to his eyes. He was standing in the portico thatlooked out upon the distant river, about an hour after the wedding,talking with one of the bridesmaids, when the latter, pointing tothe sky, said, laughing--

"There comes your fate."

Emerson's eyes followed the direction of her finger.

"You speak in riddles," he replied, looking back into the maiden'sface. "What do you see?"

"A little white blemish on the deepening azure," was answered."There it lies, just over that stately horse-chestnut, whosebranches arch themselves into the outline of a great cathedralwindow."

"A scarcely perceptible cloud?"

"Yes, no bigger than a hand; and just below it is another."

"I see; and yet you still propound a riddle. What has that cloud todo with my fate?"

"You know the old superstition connected with wedding-days?"

"What?"

"That as the aspect of the day is, so will the wedded life be."

"Ours, then, is full of promise. There has been no fairer day thanthis," said the young man.

"Yet many a day that opened as bright and cloudless has sobbeditself away in tears."

"True; and it may be so again. But I am no believer in signs."

"Nor I," said the young lady, again laughing.

The bride came up at this moment and, hearing the remark of heryoung husband, said, as she drew her arm within his--

"What about signs, Hartley?"

"Miss Carman has just reminded me of the superstition aboutwedding-days, as typical of life."

"Oh yes, I remember," said Irene, smiling. "If the day opens clear,then becomes cloudy, and goes out in storm, there will be happinessin the beginning, but sorrow at the close; but if clouds and rainherald its awakening, then pass over and leave the sky blue andsunny, there will be trouble at first, but smiling peace as lifeprogresses and declines. Our sky is bright as heart could wish." Andthe bride looked up into the deep blue ether.

Miss Carman laid one hand upon her arm and with the other pointedlower down, almost upon the horizon's edge, saying, in a tone ofmock solemnity--

"As I said to Mr. Emerson, so I now say to you--There comes ourfate."

"You don't call that the herald of an approaching storm?"

"Weatherwise people say," answered the maiden, "that a sky without acloud is soon followed by stormy weather. Since morning until nowthere has not a cloud been seen."'

"Weatherwise people and almanac-makers speak very oracularly, butthe day of auguries and signs is over," replied Irene.

"Philosophy," said Mr. Emerson, "is beginning to find reasons in thenature of things for results that once seemed only accidental, yetfollowed with remarkable certainty the same phenomena. It discoversa relation of cause and effect where ignorance only recognizes somepower working in the dark."

"So you pass me over to the side of ignorance!" Irene spoke in atone that Hartley's ear recognized too well. His remark had touchedher pride.

"Not by any means," he answered quickly, eager to do away theimpression. "Not by any means," he repeated. "The day of mereauguries, omens and signs is over. Whatever natural phenomena appearare dependent on natural causes, and men of science are beginning tostudy the so-called superstitions of farmers and seamen, to findout, if possible, the philosophical elucidation. Already a number ofcurious results have followed investigation in this field."

Irene leaned on his arm still, but she did not respond. A littlecloud had come up and lay just upon the verge of her soul's horizon.Her husband knew that it was there; and this knowledge caused acloud to dim also the clear azure of his mind. There was a singularcorrespondence between their mental sky and the fair ceruleanwithout.

Fearing to pursue the theme on which they were conversing, lest someunwitting words might shadow still further the mind of Irene,Emerson changed the subject, and was, to all appearance, successfulin dispelling the little cloud.

The hour came, at length, when the bridal party must leave. After atender, tearful partings with her father, Irene turned her stepsaway from the home of her childhood into a new path, that would leadher out into the world, where so many thousands upon thousands, whosaw only a way of velvet softness before them, have cut their tendedfeet upon flinty rocks, even to the verve end of their tearfuljourney. Tightly and long did Mr. Delancy hold his child to hisheart, and when his last kiss was given and his fervent "God giveyou a happy life, my daughter!" said, he gazed after her departingform with eyes front which manly firmness could not hold back thetears.

No one knew better than Mr. Delancy the perils that lay before hisdaughter. That storms would darken her sky and desolate her heart,he had too good reason to fear. His hope for her lay beyond thesummer-time of life, when, chastened by suffering and subdued byexperience, a tranquil autumn would crown her soul with blessingsthat might have been earlier enjoyed. He was not superstitious, andyet it was with a feeling of concern that he saw the white andgolden clouds gathering like enchanted land along the horizon, andpiling themselves up, one above another, as if in sport, buildingcastles and towers that soon dissolved, changing away into fantasticforms, in which the eye could see no meaning; and when, at last, hisear caught a far-distant sound that jarred the air, a sudden painshot through his heart.

"On any other day but this!" he sighed to himself, turning from thewindow at which he was standing and walking restlessly the floor forseveral minutes, lost in a sad, dreamy reverie.

Like something instinct with life the stately steamer, quiveringwith every stroke of her iron heart, swept along the gleaming riveron her upward passage, bearing to their destination her freight ofhuman souls. Among theme was our bridal party, which, as the day wasso clear and beautiful, was gathered upon the upper deck. As Irene'seyes turned from the closing vision of her father's beautiful home,where the first cycle of her life had recorded its golden hours, shesaid, with a sigh, speaking to one of her companions--

"Farewell, Ivy Cliff! I shall return to you again, but not the samebeing I was when I left your pleasant scenes this morning."

"A happier being I trust," replied Miss Carman, one of herbridemaids.

Rose Carman was a young friend, residing in the neighborhood of herfather, to whom Irene was tenderly attached.

"Something here says no." And Irene, bending toward Miss Carman,pressed one of her hands against her bosom.

"The weakness of an hour like this," answered her friend with anassuring smile. "It will pass away like the morning cloud and theearly dew."

Mr. Emerson noticed the shade upon the face of his bride, anddrawing near to her, said, tenderly--

"I can forgive you a sigh for the past, Irene. Ivy Cliff is a lovelyspot, and your home has been all that a maiden's heart could desire.It would be strange, indeed, if the chords that have so long boundyou there did not pull at your heart in parting."

Irene did not answer, but let her eyes turn backward with a pensivealmost longing glance toward the spot where lay hidden among thedistant trees the home of her early years. A deep shadow hadsuddenly fallen upon her spirits. Whence it came she knew not andasked not; but with the shadow was a dim foreboding of evil.

There was tact and delicacy enough in the companions of Irene tolead them to withdraw observation and to withhold further remarksuntil she could recover the self-possession she had lost. This cameback in a little while, when, with an effort, she put on the light,easy manner so natural to her.

"Looking at the signs?" said one of the party, half an hourafterward, as she saw the eyes of Irene ranging along the sky, whereclouds were now seen towering up in steep masses, like distantmountains.

"If I were a believer of signs," replied Irene, placing her armwithin that of the maiden who had addressed her, and drawing herpartly aside, "I might feel sober at this portent. But I am not.Still, sign or no sign, I trust we are not going to have a storm. Itwould greatly mar our pleasure."

But long ere the boat reached Albany, rain began to fall,accompanied by lightning and thunder; and soon the clouds weredissolving in a mimic deluge. Hour after hour, the wind and rain andlightning held fierce revelry, and not until near the completion ofthe voyage did the clouds hold back their watery treasures, and thesunbeams force themselves through the storm's dark barriers,

When the stars came out that evening, studding the heavens withlight, there was no obscuring spot on all the o'erarching sky.

CHAPTER IV.

UNDER THE CLOUD.

_THE_ wedding party was to spend a week at Saratoga, and it was nowthe third day since its arrival. The time had passed pleasantly, orwearily, according to the state of mind or social habits andresources of the individual. The bride, it was remarked by some ofthe party, seemed dull; and Rose Carman, who knew her friend better,perhaps, than any other individual in the company, and kept herunder close observation, was concerned to notice an occasionalcurtness of manner toward her husband, that was evidently notrelished. Something had already transpired to jar the chords solately attuned to harmony.

After dinner a ride was proposed by one of the company. Emersonresponded favorably, but Irene was indifferent. He urged her, andshe gave an evidently reluctant consent. While the gentlemen went tomake arrangement for carriages, the ladies retired to their rooms.Miss Carman accompanied the bride. She had noticed her manner, andfelt slightly troubled at her state of mind, knowing, as she did,her impulsive character and blind self-will when excited byopposition.

"I don't want to ride to-day!" exclaimed Irene, throwing herselfinto a chair as soon as she had entered her room; "and Hartley knowsthat I do not."

Her cheeks burned and her eyes sparkled.

"If it will give him pleasure to ride out," said Rose, in a gentlesoothing manner, "you cannot but have the same feeling inaccompanying him."

"I beg your pardon!" replied Irene, briskly. "If I don't want toride, no company can make the act agreeable. Why can't people learnto leave others in freedom? If Hartley had shown the sameunwillingness to join this riding party that I manifested, do youthink I would have uttered a second word in favor of going? No. I amprovoked at his persistence."

"There, there, Irene!" said Miss Carman, drawing an arm tenderlyaround the neck of her friend; "don't trust such sentences on yourlips. I can't bear to hear you talk so. It isn't my sweet friendspeaking."

"You are a dear, good girl, Rose," replied Irene, smiling faintly,"and I only wish that I had a portion of your calm, gentle spirit.But I am as I am, and must act out if I act at all. I must be myselfor nothing."

"You can be as considerate of others as of yourself?" said Rose.

Irene looked at her companion inquiringly.

"I mean," added Rose, "that you can exercise the virtue ofself-denial in order to give pleasure to another--especially if thatother one be an object very dear to you. As in the present case,seeing that your husband wants to join this riding party, you can,for his sake, lay aside your indifference, and enter, with a heartygood-will, into the proposed pastime."

"And why cannot he, seeing that I do not care to ride, deny himselfa little for my sake, and not drag me out against my will? Is allthe yielding and concession to be on my side? Must his will rule ineverything? I can tell you what it is, Rose, this will never suitme. There will be open war between us before the honeymoon has waxedand waned, if he goes on as he has begun."

"Hush! hush, Irene!" said her friend, in a tone of deprecation. "Thelightest sense of wrong gains undue magnitude the moment we begin tocomplain. We see almost anything to be of greater importance whenfrom the obscurity of thought we bring it out into the daylight ofspeech."

"It will be just as I say, and saying it will not make it any moreso," was Irene's almost sullen response to this. "I have my ownideas of things and my own individuality, and neither of these do Imean to abandon. If Hartley hasn't the good sense to let me have myown way in what concerns myself, I will take my own way. As to thetroubles that may come afterward, I do not give them any weight inthe argument. I would die a martyr's deaths rather than become thepassive creature of another."

"My dear friend, why will you talk so?" Rose spoke in a tone ofgrief.

"Simply because I am in earnest. From the hour of our marriage Ihave seen a disposition on the part of my husband to assumecontrol--to make his will the general law of our actions. It has notexhibited itself in things of moment, but in trifles, showing thatthe spirit was there. I say this to you, Rose, because we have beenlike sisters, and I can tell you of my inmost thoughts. There is acloud already in the sky, and it threatens an approaching storm."

"Oh, my friend, why are you so blind, so weak, so self-deceived? Youare putting forth your hands to drag down the temple of happiness.If it fall, it will crush you beneath a mass of ruins; and not youonly, but the one you have so lately pledged yourself before God andhis angels to love."

"And I do love him as deeply as ever man was loved. Oh that he knewmy heart! He would not then shatter his image there. He would nottrifle with a spirit formed for intense, yielding, passionate love,but rigid as steel and cold as ice when its freedom is touched. Heshould have known me better before linking his fate with mine."

One of her darker moods had come upon Irene, and she was beatingabout in the blind obscurity of passion. As she began to giveutterance to complaining thoughts, new thoughts formed themselves,and what was only vague feelings grew into ideas of wrong; andthese, when once spoken, assumed a magnitude unimagined before. Invain did her friend strive with her. Argument, remonstrance,persuasion, only seemed to bring greater obscurity and to excite amore bitter feeling in her mind. And so, despairing of any goodresult, Rose withdrew, and left her with her own unhappy thoughts.

Not long after Miss Carman retired, Emerson came in. At the sound ofhis approaching footsteps, Irene had, with a strong effort, composedherself and swept back the deeper shadows from her face.

"Not ready yet?" he said, in a pleasant, half-chiding way. "Thecarriages will be at the door in ten minutes."

"I am not going to ride out," returned Irene, in a quiet, seeminglyindifferent tone of voice. Hartley mistook her manner for sport, andanswered pleasantly--

"Oh yes you are, my little lady."

"No, I am not." There was no misapprehension now.

"Not going to ride out?" Hartley's brows contracted.

"No; I am not going to ride out to-day." Each word was distinctlyspoken.

"I don't understand you, Irene."

"Are not my words plain enough?"

"Yes, they are too plain--so plain as to make them involve amystery. What do you mean by this sudden change of purpose?"

"I don't wish to ride out," said Irene, with assumed calmness ofmanner; "and that being so, may I not have my will in the case?"

"No--"

A red spot burned on Irene's cheeks and her eyes flashed.

"No," repeated her husband; "not after you have given up that willto another."

"To you!" Irene started to her feet in instant passion. "And so I amto be nobody, and you the lord and master. My will is to be nothing,and yours the law of my life." Her lip curled in contemptuous anger.

"You misunderstand me," said Hartley Emerson, speaking as calmly aswas possible in this sudden emergency. "I did not refer specially tomyself, but to all of our party, to whom you had given up your willin a promise to ride out with them, and to whom, therefore, you werebound."

"An easy evasion," retorted the excited bride, who had lost hermental equipoise.

"Irene," the young man spoke sternly, "are those the right words foryour husband? An easy evasion!"

Hartley turned from her and walked the floor with rapid steps,angry, grieved and in doubt as to what it were best for him to do.The storm had broken on him without a sign of warning, and he waswholly unprepared to meet it.

"Irene," he said, at length, pausing before her, "this conduct onyour part is wholly inexplicable. I cannot understand its meaning.Will you explain yourself?"

"Certainly. I am always ready to give a reason for my conduct," shereplied, with cold dignity.

"Say on, then." Emerson spoke with equal coldness of manner.

"I did not wish to ride out, and said so in the beginning. Thatought to have been enough for you. But no--my wishes were nothing;your will must be law."

"And that is all! the head and front of my offending!" said Emerson,in a tone of surprise.

"It isn't so much the thing itself that I object to, as the spiritin which it is done," said Irene.

"A spirit of overbearing self-will!' said Emerson.

"Yes, if you choose. That is what my soul revolts against. I gaveyou my heart and my hand--my love and my confidence--not my freedom.The last is a part of my being, and I will maintain it while I havelife."

"Say on," retorted Irene; "I am prepared for this. I have seen, fromthe hour of our marriage, that a time of strife would come; thatyour will would seek to make itself ruler, and that I would notsubmit. I did not expect the issue to come so soon. I trusted inyour love to spare me, at least, until I could be bidden fromgeneral observation when I turned myself upon you and said, Thus farthou mayest go, but no farther. But, come the struggle early orlate--now or in twenty years--I am prepared."

There came at this moment a rap at their door. Mr. Emerson openedit.

"Carriage is waiting," said a servant.

"Say that we will be down in a few minutes."

The door closed.

"Come, Irene," said Mr. Emerson.

"You spoke very confidently to the servant, and said we would bedown in a few minutes."

"There, there, Irene! Let this folly die; it has lived long enough.Come! Make yourself ready with all speed--our party is delayed bythis prolonged absence."

"You think me trifling, and treat me as if I were a captious child,"said Irene, with chilling calmness; "but I am neither."

"Then you will not go?"

"I will not go." She said the words slowly and deliberately, and asshe spoke looked her husband steadily in the face. She was inearnest, and he felt that further remonstrance would be in vain.

"You will repent of this," he replied, with enough of menace in hisvoice to convey to her mind a great deal more than was in histhoughts. And he turned from her and left the room. Going downstairs, he found the riding-party waiting for their appearance.

"Where is Irene?" was asked by one and another, on seeing him alone.

"She does not care to ride out this afternoon, and so I have excusedher," he replied. Miss Carman looked at him narrowly, and saw thatthere was a shade of trouble on his countenance, which he could notwholly conceal. She would have remained behind with Irene, but thatwould have disappointed the friend who was to be her companion inthe drive.

As the party was in couples, and as Mr. Emerson had made up his mindto go without his young wife, he had to ride alone. The absence ofIrene was felt as a drawback to the pleasure of all the company.Miss Carman, who understood the real cause of Irene's refusal toride, was so much troubled in her mind that she sat almost silentduring the two hours they were out. Mr. Emerson left the party afterthey had been out for an hour, and returned to the hotel. Hisexcitement had cooled off, and he began to feel regret at theunbending way in which he had met his bride's unhappy mood.

"Her over-sensitive mind has taken up a wrong impression," he said,as he talked with himself; "and, instead of saying or doing anythingto increase that impression, I should, by word and act of kindness,have done all in my power for its removal. Two wrongs never make aright. Passion met by passion results not in peace. I should havesoothed and yielded, and so won her back to reason. As a man, Iought to possess a cooler and more rationally balanced mind. She isa being of feeling and impulse,--loving, ardent, proud, sensitiveand strong-willed. Knowing this, it was madness in me to chafeinstead of soothing her; to oppose, when gentle concession wouldhave torn from her eyes an illusive veil. Oh that I could learnwisdom in time! I was in no ignorance as to her peculiar character.I knew her faults and her weaknesses, as well as her noblerqualities; and it was for me to stimulate the one and bear with theothers. Duty, love, honor, humanity, all pointed to this."

The longer Mr. Emerson's thoughts ran in this direction, the deepergrew his feeling of self-condemnation, and the more tenderly yearnedhis heart toward the young creature he had left alone with theenemies of their peace nestling in her bosom and filling it withpassion and pain. After separating himself from his party, he droveback toward the hotel at a speed that soon put his horses into afoam.

CHAPTER V.

THE BURSTING OF THE STORM.

_MR. DELANCY_ was sitting in his library on the afternoon of thefourth day since the wedding-party left Ivy Cliff, when the entranceof some one caused him to turn toward the door.

"Irene!" he exclaimed, in a tone of anxiety and alarm, as he startedto his feet; for his daughter stood before him. Her face was pale,her eyes fixed and sad, her dress in disorder.

"Irene, in Heaven's name, what has happened?"

"The worst," she answered, in a low, hoarse voice, not moving fromthe spot where she first stood still.

"Speak plainly, my child. I cannot bear suspense."

"I have left my husband and returned to you!" was the firmly utteredreply.

"Oh, folly! oh, madness! What evil counselor has prevailed with you,my unhappy child?" said Mr. Delancy, in a voice of anguish.

"I have counseled with no one but myself."

"Never a wise counselor--never a wise counselor! But why, why haveyou taken this desperate step?"

"In self-protection," replied Irene.

"Sit down, my child. There!" and he led her to a seat. "Now let meremove your bonnet and shawl. How wretched you look, poor, misguidedone! I could have laid you in the grave with less agony than I feelin seeing you thus."

Her heart was touched at this, and tears fell over her face. In theselfishness of her own sternly-borne trouble, she had forgotten thesorrow she was bringing to her father's heart.

"Poor child! poor child!" sobbed the old man, as he sat down besideIrene and drew her head against his breast. And so both wepttogether for a time. After they had grown calm, Mr. Delancy said--

"Tell me, Irene, without disguise of any kind, the meaning of thisstep which you have so hastily taken. Let me have the beginning,progress and consummation of the sad misunderstanding."

While yet under the government of blind passion, ere her husbandreturned from the drive which Irene had refused to take with him,she had, acting from a sudden suggestion that came to her mind, lefther room and, taking the cars, passed down to Albany, where sheremained until morning at one of the hotels. In silence andloneliness she had, during the almost sleepless night that followed,ample time for reflection and repentance. And both came, withconvictions of error and deep regret for the unwise, almostdisgraceful step she had taken, involving not only suffering, buthumiliating exposure of herself and husband. But it was felt to betoo late now to look back. Pride would have laid upon her a positiveinterdiction, if other considerations had not come in to push thequestion of return aside.

In the morning, without partaking of food, Irene left in the NewYork boat, and passed down the river toward the home from which shehad gone forth, only a few days before, a happy bride--returningwith the cup, then full of the sweet wine of life, now brimming withthe bitterest potion that had ever touched her lips.

And so she had come back to her father's house. In all the hours ofmental anguish which had passed since her departure from Saratoga,there had been an accusing spirit at her ear, and, resist as shewould, self-condemnation prevailed over attemptedself-justification. The cause of this unhappy rupture was so slight,the first provocation so insignificant, that she felt the difficultyof making out her case before her father. As to the world, pridecounseled silence.

With but little concealment or extenuation of her own conduct, Irenetold the story of her disagreement with Hartley.

Mr. Delancy arose and walked the floor in silence for more than tenminutes, during which time Irene neither spoke nor moved.

"Oh, misery!" ejaculated the father, at length, lifting his handsabove his head and then bringing them down with a gesture ofdespair.

Irene started up and moved to his side.

"Dear father!" She spoke tenderly, laying her hands upon him; but hepushed her away, saying--

"Wretched girl! you have laid upon my old head a burden of disgraceand wretchedness that you have no power to remove."

"Father! father!" She clung to him, but he pushed her away. Hismanner was like that of one suddenly bereft of reason. She clungstill, but he resolutely tore himself from her, when she fellexhausted and fainting upon the floor.

Alarm now took the place of other emotions, and Mr. Delancy wasendeavoring to lift the insensible body, when a quick, heavy treadin the portico caused him to look up, just as Hartley Emerson pushedopen one of the French windows and entered the library. He had awild, anxious, half-frightened look. Mr. Delancy let the body fallfrom his almost paralyzed arms and staggered to a chair, whileEmerson sprung forward, catching up the fainting form of his youngbride and bearing it to a sofa.

"How long has she been in this way?" asked the young man, in a toneof agitation.

"She fainted this moment," replied Mr. Delancy.

"How long has she been here?"

"Not half an hour," was answered; and as Mr. Delancy spoke hereached for the bell and jerked it two or three times violently. Thewaiter, startled by the loud, prolonged sound, came hurriedly to thelibrary.

"Send Margaret here, and then get a horse and ride over swiftly forDr. Edmundson. Tell him to come immediately."

The waiter stood for a moment or two, looking in a half-terrifiedway upon the white, deathly face of Irene, and then fled from theapartment. No grass grew beneath his horse's feet as he held him tohis utmost speed for the distance of two miles, which lay betweenIvy Cliff and the doctor's residence.

Margaret, startled by the hurried, half-incoherent summons of thewaiter, came flying into the library. The moment her eyes restedupon Irene, who still insensible upon the sofa, she screamed out, interror--

"Oh, she's dead! she's dead!" and stood still as if suddenlyparalyzed; then, wringing her hands, she broke out in a wild,sobbing tone--

"My poor, poor child! Oh, she is dead, dead!"

"No, Margaret," said Mr. Delancy, as calmly as he could speak, "sheis not dead; it is only a fainting fit. Bring some water, quickly."

Water was brought and dashed into the face of Irene; but there cameno sign of returning consciousness.

"Hadn't you better take her up to her room, Mr. Emerson?" suggestedMargaret.

"Yes," he replied; and, lifting the insensible form of his bride inhis arms, the unhappy man bore her to her chamber. Then, sittingdown beside the bed upon which he had placed her, he kissed her palecheeks and, laying his face to hers, sobbed and moaned, in theabandonment of his grief, like a distressed child weeping in despairfor some lost treasure.

"Come," said Margaret, who was an old family domestic, drawingHartley from the bedside, "leave her alone with me for a littlewhile."

And the husband and father retired from the room. When theyreturned, at the call of Margaret, they found Irene in bed, herwhite, unconscious face scarcely relieved against the snowy pillowon which her head was resting.

"She is alive," said Margaret, in a low and excited voice; "I canfeel her heart beat."

"Thank God!" ejaculated Emerson, bending again over the motionlessform and gazing anxiously down upon the face of his bride.

But there was no utterance of thankfulness in the heart of Mr.Delancy. For her to come back again to conscious life was, he felt,but a return to wretchedness. If the true prayer of his heart couldhave found voice, it would have been for death, and not for life.

In silence, fear and suspense they waited an hour before the doctorarrived. Little change in Irene took place during that time, exceptthat her respiration became clearer and the pulsations of her heartdistinct and regular. The application of warm stimulants wasimmediately ordered, and their good effects soon became apparent.

"All will come right in a little while," said Dr. Edmundson,encouragingly. "It seems to be only a fainting fit of unusuallength."

Hartley drew Mr. Delancy aside.

"It will be best that I should be alone with her when she recovers,"said he.

"You may be right in that," said Mr. Delancy, after a moment'sreflection.

"Yes, at any moment. She is breathing deeper, and her heart beatswith a fuller impulse."

"Let us, retire, then;" and he drew the doctor from the apartment.Pausing at the door, he called to Margaret in a half whisper. Shewent out also, Emerson alone remaining.

Taking his place by the bedside, he waited, in trembling anxiety,for the moment when her eyes should open and recognize him. At lastthere came a quivering of the eyelids and a motion about thesleeper's lips. Emerson bent over and took one of her hands in his.

"Irene!" He called her name in a voice of the tenderest affection.The sound seemed to penetrate to the region of consciousness, forher lips moved with a murmur of inarticulate words. He kissed her,and said again--

"Irene!"

There was a sudden lighting up of her face.

"Irene, love! darling!" The voice of Emerson was burdened withtenderness.

"Oh, Hartley!" she exclaimed, opening her eyes and looking with akind of glad bewilderment into his face. Then, half rising anddrawing her arms around his neck, she hid her face on his bosom,murmuring--

"Thank God that it is only a dream!"

"Yes, thank God!" replied her husband, as he kissed her in a kind ofwild fervor; "and may such dreams never come again."

She lay very still for some moments. Thought and memory werebeginning to act feebly. The response of her husband had in itsomething that set her to questioning. But there was one thing thatmade her feel happy: the sound of his loving voice was in her ears;and all the while she felt his hand moving, with a soft, caressingtouch, over her cheek and temple.

"Dear Irene!" he murmured in her ears; and then her hand tightenedon his.

And thus she remained until conscious life regained its fullactivity. Then the trial came.

Suddenly lifting herself from the bosom of her husband, Irene gave ahurried glance around the well-known chamber, then turned and lookedwith a strange, fearful questioning glance into his face:

She closed her eyes as Emerson placed her back on the pillow, a sadexpression covering her still pallid face. Sitting down beside her,he took her hand and held it with a firm pressure. She did notattempt to withdraw it. He kissed her, and a warmer flush came overher face.

"Dear Irene!" His hand pressed tightly upon hers, and she returnedthe pressure.

"Shall I call your father? He is very anxious about you."

"Not yet." And she caught slightly her breath, as if feeling weregrowing too strong for her.

"Let it be as a dream, Hartley." Irene lifted herself up and lookedcalmly, but with a very sad expression on her countenance, into herhusband's face.

"Between us two, Irene, even as a dream from which both haveawakened," he replied.

She closed her eyes and sunk back upon the pillow.

Mr. Emerson then went to the door and spoke to Mr. Delancy. On abrief consultation it was thought best for Dr. Edmundson not to seeher again. A knowledge of the fact that he had been called in mightgive occasion for more disturbing thoughts than were alreadypressing upon her mind. And so, after giving some general directionsas to the avoidance of all things likely to excite her mindunpleasantly, the doctor withdrew.

Mr. Delancy saw his daughter alone. The interview was long andearnest. On his part was the fullest disapproval of her conduct andthe most solemnly spoken admonitions and warnings. She confessed hererror, without any attempt at excuse or palliation, and promised awiser conduct in the future.

"There is not one husband in five," said the father, "who would haveforgiven an act like this, placing him, as it does, in such a falseand humiliating position before the world. He loves you with toodeep and true a love, my child, for girlish trifling like this. Andlet me warn you of the danger you incur of turning against you thespirit of such a man. I have studied his character closely, and Isee in it an element of firmness that, if it once sets itself, willbe as inflexible as iron. If you repeat acts of this kind, the daymust come when forbearance will cease; and then, in turning fromyou, it will be never to turn back again. Harden him against youonce, and it will be for all time."

Irene wept bitterly at this strong representation, and trembled atthought of the danger she had escaped.

To her husband, when she was alone with him again, she confessed herfault, and prayed him to let the memory of it pass from his mind forever. On his part was the fullest denial of any purpose whatever, inthe late misunderstanding, to bend her to his will. He assured herthat if he had dreamed of any serious objection on her part to theride, he would not have urged it for a moment. It involved nopromised pleasure to him apart from pleasure to her; and it wasbecause he believed that she would enjoy the drive that he had urgedher to make one of the party.

All this was well, as far as it could go. But repentance and mutualforgiveness did not restore everything to the old condition--did notobliterate that one sad page in their history, and leave them freeto make a new and better record. If the folly had been in private,the effort at forgiving and forgetting would have been attended withfewer annoying considerations. But it was committed in public, andunder circumstances calculated to attract attention and occasioninvidious remark. And then, how were they to meet the differentmembers of the wedding-party, which they had so suddenly thrown intoconsternation?

On the next day the anxious members of this party made theirappearance at Ivy Cliff, not having, up to this time, received anyintelligence of the fugitive bride. Mr. Delancy did not attempt toexcuse to them the unjustifiable conduct of his daughter, beyond theadmission that she must have been temporarily deranged. Somethingwas said about resuming the bridal tour, but Mr. Delancy said, "No;the quiet of Ivy Cliff will yield more pleasure than the excitementof travel."

And all felt this to be true.

CHAPTER VI.

AFTER THE STORM.

_AFTER_ the storm. Alas! that there should be a wreck-strewn shoreso soon! That within three days of the bridal morning a tempestshould have raged, scattering on the wind sweet blossoms which hadjust opened to the sunshine, tearing away the clinging vines oflove, and leaving marks of desolation which no dew and sunshinecould ever obliterate!

It was not a blessed honeymoon to them. How could it be, after whathad passed? Both were hurt and mortified; and while there was mutualforgiveness and great tenderness and fond concessions, one towardthe other, there was a sober, (sic) thoughful state of mind, notfavorable to happiness.

Mr. Delancy hoped the lesson--a very severe one--might prove theguarantee of future peace. It had, without doubt, awakened Irene'smind to sober thoughts--and closer self-examination than usual. Shewas convicted in her own heart of folly, the memory of which couldnever return to her without a sense of pain.

At the end of three weeks from the day of their marriage, Mr. andMrs. Emerson went down to the city to take possession of their newhome. On the eve of their departure from Ivy Cliff, Mr. Delancy hada long conference with his daughter, in which he conjured her, byall things sacred, to guard herself against that blindness ofpassion which had already produced such unhappy consequences. Sherepeated, with many tears, her good resolutions for the future, andshowed great sorrow and contrition for the past.

"It may come out right," said the old man to himself; as he satalone, with a pressure of foreboding on his mind, looking into thedim future, on the day of their departure for New York. His only andbeloved child had gone forth to return no more, unless in sorrow orwretchedness. "It may come out right, but my heart has sadmisgivings."

There was a troubled suspense of nearly a week, when the firstletter came from Irene to her father. He broke the seal withunsteady hands, fearing to let his eyes fall upon the opening page.

"My dear, dear father! I am a happy young wife."

"Thank God!" exclaimed the old man aloud, letting the hand fall thatheld Irene's letter. It was some moments before he could readfarther; then he drank in, with almost childish eagerness, everysentence of the long letter.

"Yes, yes, it may come out right," said Mr. Delancy; "it may comeout right." He uttered the words, so often on his lips, with moreconfidence than usual. The letter strongly urged him to make her avisit, if it was only for a day or two.

"You know, dear father," she wrote, "that most of your time is to bespent with us--all your winters, certainly; and we want you to beginthe new arrangement as soon as possible."

Mr. Delancy sighed over the passage. He had not set his heart onthis arrangement. It might have been a pleasant thing for him toanticipate; but there was not the hopeful basis for anticipationwhich a mind like his required.

Not love alone prompted Mr. Delancy to make an early visit to NewYork; a feeling of anxiety to know how it really was with the youngcouple acted quite as strongly in the line of incentive. And so hewent down to the city and passed nearly a week there. Both Irene andher husband knew that he was observing them closely all the while,and a consciousness of this put them under some constraint.Everything passed harmoniously, and Mr. Delancy returned with thehalf-hopeful, half-doubting words on his lips, so often and oftenrepeated--

"Yes, yes, it may come out right."

But it was not coming out altogether right. Even while the old manwas under her roof, Irene had a brief season of self-willed reactionagainst her husband, consequent on some unguarded word or act, whichshe felt to be a trespass on her freedom. To save appearances whileMr. Delancy was with them, Hartley yielded and tenderedconciliation, all the while that his spirit chafed sorely.

The departure of Mr. Delancy for Ivy Cliff was the signal for bothIrene and her husband to lay aside a portion of the restraint whicheach had borne with a certain restlessness that longed for a time offreedom. On the very day that he left Irene showed so much thatseemed to her husband like perverseness of will that he wasseriously offended, and spoke an unguarded word that was as fire tostubble--a word that was repented of as soon as spoken, but whichpride would not permit him to recall. It took nearly a week ofsuffering to discipline the mind of Mr. Emerson to the point ofconciliation. On the part of Irene there was not the thought ofyielding. Her will, supported by pride, was as rigid as iron. Reasonhad no power over her. She felt, rather than thought.

Thus far, both as lover and husband, in all their alienations,Hartley had been the first to yield; and it was so now. He wasstrong-willed and persistent; but cooler reason helped him back intothe right way, and he had, thus far, found it quicker than Irene.Not that he suffered less or repented sooner. Irene's suffering wasfar deeper, but she was blinder and more self-determined.

Again the sun of peace smiled down upon them, but, as before, onsomething shorn of its strength or beauty.

"I will be more guarded," said Hartley to himself. "Knowing herweakness, why should I not protect her against everything thatwounds her sensitive nature? Love concedes, is long suffering andfull of patience. I love Irene--words cannot tell how deeply. Thenwhy should I not, for her sake, bear and forbear? Why should I thinkof myself and grow fretted because she does not yield as readily asI could desire to my wishes?"

So Emerson talked with himself and resolved. But who does not knowthe feebleness of resolution when opposed to temperament andconfirmed habits of mind? How weak is mere human strength! Alas! howfew, depending on that alone, are ever able to bear up steadily, forany length of time, against the tide of passion!

Off his guard in less than twenty-four hours after resolving thuswith himself, the young husband spoke in captious disapproval ofsomething which Irene had done or proposed to do, and theconsequence was the assumption on her part of a cold, reserved anddignified manner, which hurt and annoyed him beyond measure. Prideled him to treat her in the same way; and so for days they met insilence or formal courtesy, all the while suffering a degree ofwretchedness almost impossible to be endured, and all the while,which was worst of all, writing on their hearts bitter thingsagainst each other.

To Emerson, as before, the better state first returned, and thesunshine of his countenance drove the shadows from hers. Then for aseason they were loving, thoughtful, forbearing and happy. But theclouds came back again, and storms marred the beauty of their lives.

All this was sad--very sad. There were good and noble qualities inthe hearts of both. They were not narrow-minded and selfish, like somany of your placid, accommodating, calculating people, but generousin their feelings and broad in their sympathies. They had ideals oflife that went reaching out far beyond themselves. Yes, it was sadto see two such hearts beating against and bruising each other,instead of taking the same pulsation. But there seemed to be no helpfor them. Irene's jealous guardianship of her freedom, her quicktemper, pride and self-will made the position of her husband sodifficult that it was almost impossible for him to avoid givingoffence.

The summer and fall passed away without any serious rupture betweenthe sensitive couple, although there had been seasons of greatunhappiness to both. Irene had been up to Ivy Cliff many times tovisit her father, and now she was, beginning to urge his removal tothe city for the winter; but Mr. Delancy, who had never given hisfull promise to this arrangement, felt less and less inclined toleave his old home as the season advanced. Almost from boyhood hehad lived there, and his habits were formed for rural instead ofcity life.

He pictured the close streets, with their rows of houses, that leftfor the eye only narrow patches of ethereal blue, and contrastedthis with the broad winter landscape, which for him had alwaysspread itself out with a beauty rivaled by no other season, and hisheart failed him.

The brief December days were on them, and Irene grew more urgent.

"Come, dear father," she wrote. "I think of you, sitting all aloneat Ivy Cliff, during these long evenings, and grow sad at heart insympathy with your loneliness. Come at once. Why linger a week oreven a day longer? We have been all in all to each other these manyyears, and ought not to be separated now."

But Mr. Delancy was not ready to exchange the pure air andwidespreading scenery of the Highlands for a city residence, even inthe desolate winter, and so wrote back doubtingly. Irene and herhusband then came up to add the persuasion of their presence at IvyCliff. It did not avail, however. The old man was too deeply weddedto his home.

"I should be miserable in New York," he replied to their earnestentreaties; "and it would not add to your happiness to see me goingabout with a sober, discontented face, or to be reminded everylittle while that if you had left me to my winter's hibernation Iwould have been a contented instead of a dissatisfied old man. No,no, my children; Ivy Cliff is the best place for me. You shall comeup and spend Christmas here, and we will have a gay season."

There was no further use in argument. Mr. Delancy would have hisway; and he was right.

Irene and her husband went back to the city, with a promise to spendChristmas at the old homestead.

Two weeks passed. It was the twentieth of December. Without previousintimation, Irene came up alone to Ivy Cliff, startling her fatherby coming in suddenly upon him one dreary afternoon, just as theleaden sky began to scatter down the winter's first offering ofsnow.

"My daughter!" he exclaimed, so surprised that he could not movefrom where he was sitting.

"Dear father!" she answered with a loving smile, throwing her armsaround his neck and kissing him.

"Where is Hartley?" asked the old man, looking past Irene toward thedoor through which she had just entered.

"Oh, I left him in New York," she replied.

"In New York! Have you come alone?"

"Yes. Christmas is only five days off, you know, and I am here tohelp you prepare for it. Of course, Hartley cannot leave hisbusiness."

She spoke in an excited, almost gay tone of voice. Mr. Delancylooked at her earnestly. Unpleasant doubts flitted through his mind.

"When will your husband come up?" he inquired.

"At Christmas," she answered, without hesitation.

"Why didn't you write, love?" asked Mr. Delancy. "You have taken meby surprise, and set my nerves in a flutter."

"I only thought about it last evening. One of my suddenresolutions."

And she laughed a low, fluttering laugh. It might have been anerror, but her father had a fancy that it did not come from herheart.

"I will run up stairs and put off my things," she said, moving away.

"Did you bring a trunk?"

"Oh yes; it is at the landing. Will you send for it?"

And Irene went, with quick steps, from the apartment, and ran up tothe chamber she still called her own. On the way she met Margaret.

"Miss Irene!" exclaimed the latter, pausing and lifting her hands inastonishment. "Why, where did you come from?"

"Just arrived in the boat. Have come to help you get ready forChristmas."

"Please goodness, how you frightened me!" said the warm-hearteddomestic, who had been in the family ever since Irene was a child,and was strongly attached to her. "How's Mr. Emerson?"

"Oh, he's well, thank you, Margaret."

"Well now, child, you did set me all into a fluster. I thought maybeyou'd got into one of your tantrums, and come off and left yourhusband."

"Why, Margaret!" A crimson flush mantled the face of Irene.

"You must excuse me, child, but just that came into my head,"replied Margaret. "You're very downright and determined sometimes;